My Poetic Birkenstocks
by Ironi Numair
Summary: Second generation fic. Mr. Turner, still teaching at John Adams High, gains a new student recently moved from New York: the son of his most memorable students.


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My Poetic Birkenstocks  
Chapter 1: Enter the Leather Jacket

The junior was clearly out of place. It was not his clothes or his hair that had immediately marred him an outsider within the halls of John Adams High School, but the lack of an attempt to blend in. He was clearly lost as he stumbled around, occasionally glancing at a slip of paper in his pale hand. When he finally found his locker he did not bother to suppress his thrill.

"Victory!" he cried, slinging his backpack off his shoulder. His mood died instantly as his lock combination failed to work.

He had not wanted to move. His friends had not wanted him to move. But here he was, a brand new state and a brand new school.

Man, life sucked.

The thought of his friends annoyed him. Mac, Alicia, and himself, the unstoppable trio that had known each other since elementary school and had faced countless trials from dating to rubber waffles. Now they had been torn apart. He wondered what Mac and Alicia were doing without him. Probably dating behind his back.

He brushed the angry thought aside. It had been six months since he and Alicia had broken up, why was he still so defensive? He kicked his locker in frustration.

"Well, not quite St. George but I'll bet that locker'll will think twice before messing with you again."

Standing at the locker beside his was a curly-haired girl wearing an oversized sweater and leggings. She had bright eyes and freckles.

"Yeah well," he replied, running his hands through his long hair habitually, "just checking for dragons."

She laughed and he could see she had noticeable buckteeth, but it only added to her look.

"I'm Heather," she said and extended her hand, "You're new, right?"

He gladly took her hand and returned the greeting. "I was never a subtle guy. I'm Asher."

"Nice to meet you. Looks like we're locker neighbors. Oh, one sec!" Heather quickly began to root through her backpack until she pulled out a purple Polaroid camera. "Do you mind if I…?"

Asher shrugged and ran his hands through his hair again. "Go ahead."

She smiled and the flash flared in his eyes, momentarily blinding him. The camera spat the photo out and she waved it about as she thanked him.

"I love taking photos, especially of people."

"No kidding."

Scribbling _Asher_ across the bottom of the photograph with a gel pen, Heather stuck it with a collage of faces growing in the back of her locker. "I like your eyes, a nice shade of blue…"

"Thanks. So, since I've helped you with your little collection, you think you can help me with the dragon's lair here?" Asher said casually, banging on his locker.

"Yeah. Here, the locks actually get stuck, I dunno if they're rusted or what, but you gotta pull," she yanked on the lock with incredible force and the door snapped open, "really hard."

Asher nodded. "I see. Thanks, maybe I'll get to class on time."

"Who do you have third period?"

He checked the slip of paper again. "Um, Turner."

"You're lucky, he's real cool."

"So I hear. My dad had him as a teacher for a while."

"Really? He's older than I thought then. Where're you from, anyway?"

"Just moved from New York." Asher pulled off his old leather jacket, practically his symbol back home, and tossed it into the empty locker before tying back his dark hair in a short ponytail. The bell rang.

Heather smiled again. He was really beginning to enjoy that smile. "Listen," she said, "I have gym, so I gotta go. Turner's class is that door right there," she pointed to the room almost right across from them, "I'll see ya later, 'kay?"

"Do I have a choice? You're my neighbor, apparently."

He was blessed with that bucktoothed smile one last time before she turned and hurried down the hall. Leaning against his locker, Asher watched the other students bustle about and swamp into classrooms. He was the new guy, which enabled him a few minutes lateness, and he planned to use them. When the halls had all but emptied, however, his dawdling was brought to an end as a teacher -he assumed Mr. Turner- stepped into the doorway of his homeroom and spotted him.

"'Bell rang," he called, "time to get to class. Now."

Shrugging, Asher sauntered over to his new teacher, sliding on his charming smile. "Yessir. I'm new here, still learning the ropes."

"You're the new student?" Turner said. The kid looked very familiar, and that somehow surprised the old English teacher. But where had he seen him…?

"So I said. I don't need to like, you know, introduce myself to the class or anything, do I? Sir?"

"Well," Jonathan explained wryly, "we save those for right before naptime so your name can settle into everyone's brain."

Asher smirked. He was going to like this teacher.

He entered the classroom and found an empty seat in the back. Mr. Turner took the traditional teachers' place in front of the room and quickly ran through roll call. Asher listened to the names carefully, figuring he might as well try to memorize them today since he wouldn't care tomorrow.

Jonathan Turner was no longer the young teacher Asher had heard about from his parents. His dark hair was now peppered grey and wrinkles lined his face. But he was in relatively good physique and youthful liveliness glittered in his dark eyes. He walked with a noticeable limp, a result of the accident Asher's parents told him about, long ago. Though frankly, he had never quite figured out what cults and hugging had to do with motorcycles anyway. His parents never really explained it all that well. In fact his father tended to avoid the whole subject entirely.

"Okay," Jonathan began, "first off we got a new student. Class, this is…" he paused to check his papers, "Asher Matthews. Make him feel welcome, help me break him in."

Student heads all turned to face Asher in the back and he took advantage of their attention and basked. He leaned forward and raised one hand in a lazy wave. The moment was short-lived and they returned their attention to the English teacher.

Grabbing a book from off the top of his desk, Mr. Turner casually strolled down the rows and dove into the lesson. Reaching Asher's desk, he handed him the book, _Macbeth_. Asher smiled. He was a fan of Shakespeare's work.

This year might not be so bad afterall.

About an hour later the bell rang and the students filed out of the classroom. Asher gathered up his notebooks and made his way to the teacher's desk.

"Mr. Turner?"

"Hey," Jonathan turned his attention from the blackboard to his newest student, "don't worry about the test tomorrow, I know you gotta catch up and all."

"Oh no, it's not that. I just wanted to say it's great to meet you. I've heard a lot about you from my parents, and all. They used to be in your class."

"Oh really?"

"Yeah, Cory Matthews and Topanga Lawrence."

After so many years of teaching, students tended to fade from Turner's memories sometimes, but those two names struck a chord in his brain. Besides, it was not as though Topanga was a common name. Suddenly their faces and mishaps came rushing back to him and he smiled in recognition.

"Wow, there's two names I didn't expect to hear. How are they?"

"Good, good. As soon as they saw I had you they got all excited. Mom said I should go easy on you."

"Oh you gonna try to hustle the teacher?"

"Nah, I kinda like you."

"Gee, I'm flattered."

Asher smiled broadly in a way that seemed all too familiar to Mr. Turner. Cory and Topanga's kid, huh? Still, he felt he had seen Asher somewhere before, and it wasn't from his memories of those two lovebirds, though it seemed awfully close somehow.

"Anyway," Asher continued, "just wanted to introduce myself proper. My parents'll probably want to see you again, if that's okay."

"Yeah, I'd like that."

Asher smiled again and began to back out of the classroom. "Alright then. See you tomorrow, Mr. Turner." He turned and walked out, whistling to himself.

Jonathan watched him go, confidence in the boy's every step despite himself. He'd seen that walk before, strolling up and down the hallways, hurrying up the stairs, slinking into the kitchen… Suddenly he knew where he had seen him before.

The Matthews kid was practically the spitting image of Shawn Hunter.

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End file.
